Volcabulary of the Dead

i’m cooking these words on the stove,  
hoping they won’t burn—  
but they burst into flames,  
fierce with laser focus,  
only to be choked on  
when spoon-fed,  
and regurgitated  
when swallowed.  

served like fast food—  
empty calories filling the gaps  
meant to comfort,  
to reorder.
part of the standard American diet.
words on a bun,  
piled high with all the fixings,  
a digested impact crater,
in the pit of our gut.  

politicians try them on  
like shoes—  
until they fit,
but seldom do.  
words written  
to fall off the paper’s edge,  
into the echo chamber
of insincerity.  
instead, they carve them into stone—  
only to shatter  
when dropped.  

formulated words  
to soothe,  
to numb pain.
thoughts folded into paper prayers,
thrown skyward.
officials toss them high,  
a solemn beacon of fortitude.

but the touch of a dead child  
shoots them as skeet.  

bullets spoken as words,  
spat out with ease,  
surrender to normalcy—  
just another  
American day.  

---

**2**  

an errant boy,  
garden hose in hand,  
sprays the clouds full  
as mourners careen
to pay respects  
to his family.  

words,  
drenched in sorrow,  
are washed away  
by the cloudburst.  
the open umbrellas
amplify the drops
into a steady drum beat,
as they hit, roll, 
and vanish.
 
---

**3**

Ashai cradles  
a red plastic ball,  
her palms hoping
to find its role.

meant to roll,  
to wander, 
to tumble,
perhaps even fly  
through the air in play—  

but it’s too hard to bounce,  
too light to throw.  
small worries,
circle before settling,
inside her pretend world.

---

**4**

the chevron-blue lake  
draws an outline  
along the water’s edge,  
a loneliness floats  
on its water mattress,  
bobbing the loons  
into calling for solitude  
before it reaches us all.  

shivering leaves rustle
signalling the night breeze
whispering warnings  
of another cloud spill
by the garden hose.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025



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